


Before the Eclipse

by yo_kookie



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, No one lives, Read at Your Own Risk, Sadness, The entire idea is everyone dies, a lot of tears, be prepared, everyone dies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-04 16:50:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1786270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yo_kookie/pseuds/yo_kookie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before twelve were able to protect the Tree they lived the lives of another. What they wished for most in their time of death is what the Tree of Life rewarded them with in their new lives. </p><p>(Alternatively known as "I Kill Off All of EXO" and is staged waaay before MAMA.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've found that I am really fond of writing death. Hence why this came to be. Each one will be around two pages long. Enjoy.

"Alright, you stay here Ace," he looked to the stuffed alpaca in the leather passenger's seat as he spoke. "I'm just going to take a few pictures then I'll be back." He took the weighted camera from his companion and slung it around his neck. After rolling down a window (he couldn't leave Ace alone in a hot car by himself) he removed the keys from the ignition and stepped out into humid summer air. He closed and locked the door before waving to his most trusted alpaca, "Don't eat all the ice pops while I'm gone, okay?"

\--

As an aspiring photographer and budding artist, in his opinion, he found that he was always drawn to the abandoned places that were just ready to collapse from deterioration. Hence why he found himself at an old three-story mansion in the countryside. The door of the structure had rotted to the point where it hung off it's hinges. He took a picture. Inside, a grand staircase winded up to a landing where two small sets of stairs lead to the second floor. Paintings hung loosely on walls, their canvases ripping and oil paints running from the extreme heat. A chandelier lay in the centre, beautifully stained glass shattered beyond recognition. Mold and mildew overtook carpets and plagued the corners of walls as midday light poured in through ceiling cracks and dusty windows. He took a picture.

\--

He always loved taking pictures. His friends and relatives would always stare in awe at his skillfully taken photos. Whether it was the leaning form of an ancient house or the sunlit sea of green grass and white flowers, they loved his shots. He felt alive behind the camera, and was always humbled by the fact that he was preserving something so beautiful, so inspiring. It was just him and Ace, in this cold, cruel world, so he set out to find beauty and grace. He'd traveled everywhere and anywhere, and always found something that he knew would bring someone happiness. All he wanted was to make someone's life just a little bit better, and it didn't matter whether he knew them or not. He was overjoyed when someone would leave an encouraging comment on a blog post of his, or when someone would tell him they loved his work. They made him sure that he was helping people, that he was achieving his goal. That's what made him the happiest, out of anything else. He knew he was doing good.

\--

So far, he had taken several pictures of the mansion's first floor. He was ready to move on. Slowly, and cautiously, he climbed the creaking stairs to the second floor. Plants had overgrown the walls, making a forest of tangled plants and peeling wallpaper. He took a picture. He went through each and every room, taking pictures of everything that held some degree of beauty. Cracked tea sets, blackening sheets, dust-covered bookshelves, and clouded mirrors. High ceilings with eroded moulding, neglected dolls and wooden soldiers still waiting for their friends to return for them, and grand fireplaces with charred wood still resting inside them. He loved the stillness of everything and the way it could go untouched, remaining exactly as the owners had left it for hundreds of years. He didn't feel like a trespasser in these places. Rather, he felt as if he was a hero, swooping in to preserve the memory and love that people had once had for these homes. Sometimes, while talking with Ace, he'd even compare himself to Superman.

\--

On the third floor, the last stop on his journey, he found what could be added to his list of amazing places. It seemed to have been a study, of some sort. A large desk stood in the centre, with wood dark and well-worn. Behind it, a faded plush chair took watch out a large dust-covered window. Two heavy bookshelves lined the walls, with spines still readable in golden calligraphy. He took a picture. He walked over to the chair, taking more photos as he went. Once he was up close to the desk, he payed special attention to the engravings in the wood and the documents still littered across the surface, now water-stained and yellow. He took a picture of the chair itself, with stuffing bursting out of it from ripped seams and dust ground into it's velvety fibres. Next came the bookshelves, whose novels and textbooks withstood many years of neglect. Their covers were decorated with skillfully done artwork. He took a picture. While photographing, he made sure to abide by his own little rule, don't disturb anything. He nodded to himself, eager to see his photos, as he walked out of the room.

Suddenly, the floor creaked and groaned under his feet. He fell.

\--

He had crashed through an entire floor by the time he hit the eroded wood of the first floor dining hall. His head throbbed as a circle of red began pooling behind it, similar to a halo. He couldn't feel his legs or his arms or his anything. Only the dull thud of each throb on his head could be felt. He didn't know if his limbs were moving or not. He didn't know if he was alive or not. All he knew was that he had fallen and his head hurt with an immense pain. He stared at the hole in the ceiling, that old crafted ceiling that he had broken. He didn't feel like a hero anymore, soaring through the skies and helping those in need. He felt like a betrayer. Don't disturb anything. His only rule, his only philosophy, ruptured with his spine and the ceiling. He felt guilty. Ashamed. He wanted to leave and never return, for he had desecrated an ancient relic, so to speak.

Thoughts of Ace eventually filled his mind as he lay there, unmoving. He thought of his little stuffed alpaca, his friend, still situated in that seat belt, with a smile on his face and waiting for his Yifan to return. Only he wouldn't return. He thought of his photographs, and how no one would ever see them again. He wouldn't make anyone else happy. The world would go back to being the cruel place it is. He failed so miserably to be the noble superhero he aspired to be. A coldness overtook what little senses he had left. Dust clouded his vision. He became tired, then exhausted. He slowly closed his eyes as the yellowed ceiling became harder and harder to stare at. He muttered, more to himself than anyone else, "You can eat those ice pops without me." A smile crossed his lips as he thought of Ace, enjoying all of those ice pops in his absence. "Sorry, buddy," he whispered. "I'm not your Superman."

 


	2. Chapter 2

He was working that day. He was firmly planted in his work desk’s hard wooden chair with a pen scribbling away at the paper beneath. Ideas seemed to be floating from his mind and directly to the paper. The metallic smell of the pen’s ink put him into a focused trance, one where he writes for hours upon hours until he has an almost completed novel. It’s in depth and beautifully articulated, with description so realistic it gives the reader shivers. Editing is always a necessity and by the time he’s finished the first round of edits, the sun has already retired for the night and the moon lights up his small ground-floor apartment with a white glow. Another day spent immersed in his writing.

\--

He was thumbing through his large, overflowing bookshelf, a concentrated look painting his features. It was too early to go to bed and he had already made himself dinner. Instead, he could pass the time by reading a novel, one he had been looking forward to. As he picked up the shiny, red hard covered book the ground began to shake. He dropped the book, it's binding making a loud slap as it hit the floor, as the furniture around his flat began to rattle and clink together. Earthquake, was the word that came to mind as he stumbled with each and every small step. The ground surged beneath him, causing him to fall to his knees. Behind him, books spilled off of polished shelves and hit him in the head and on the back. He looked up, rubbing where a novel had landed on the back of his skull. The large mahogany bookcase groaned and creaked as it was shaken into instability. With a sickening crash he was crushed by the heavy wooden object.

\--

Saying he was hurt was an understatement. A seemingly unbearable weight had settled upon his body, practically melding him to the floor. Every few minutes he could hear the snap of a rib before a surge of pain resonated through his nerves. He called for help so, so many times, but no one would come. His eyes were raw and red from the sobs that wracked his flattened body. Many times he had tried to move the bookcase off, but with only one hand he just wasn't strong enough. The other was trapped between the bookcase and the floor and he knew that even if he could pry it out, it would be mauled beyond belief. Again he tried to call, but his voice was so hoarse that it added to his mountain of agony. If only he could lift that bookcase and slip out from underneath it. He wondered why he had so many books and why one of things he loved most had to betray him.

\--

The phone rang and it's obnoxious ringtone echoed throughout the silent flat, waking Kyungsoo from his pain-induced sleep. He called out again, pleading for someone to help him, begging for his body to stop feeling. The answering machine toned and the words of his mother, his blessed mother, filled the room with warmth and hope. "Kyungsoo, are you alright?" The worry in her tone made his heart ache more than his entire body did. "We don't know if you felt that earthquake, but you probably didn't feel it. We're quite far away," She chuckled to herself, most likely because of the absurdity of her worry. "I'm sorry if I disturbed your work. Sleep well, honey!" The other line clicked as the message finished recording. He hiccuped, new tears springing into his eyes. Whilst coughing, he made another attempt to push the heaving structure off of him. It wouldn't budge, and when he finally stopped trying several more ribs had broken. He shouted, yelled, screamed at the top of his lungs for someone to save me, please. Someone strong, who could pry this thing off of him. Strength. He wanted strength. He desperately wanted to live. That family he dreamed of having would never exist if he died. No more novels would be pulled from the deepest recesses of his mind. He wanted strength. He wanted to live.

\--

Again he awoke, but this time to the sound of another rib breaking. How many did he have left? Are they what's keeping him alive? Another snap and he was sobbing again, causing fluids to leak from his nose and mouth. He called out, but no one came. He pushed at the top of the bookcase, but it didn't move. If he had two hands he could do it, he assured himself. With a handful of sickening snaps and cracks and a river full of tears, his arm was finally free.

He choked, vomit crawling up throat. Red was spilling out from the underside of his arm. Blood pooled onto the grain of the wooden bookcase and stained his clothing. It looked as if his arm had burst open, with the insides of it spilling out of it and oh god was that bone. His hand, bruised and swollen, throbbed. Slowly, he lifted both arms and positioned them, and with all of the strength he had left, he pushed at the bookcase for a final time. Pain rippled throughout his body, and he screamed in agony. Why wasn't he strong enough to move the bookcase? Why wasn't he strong enough to overlook the pain? He rested his arms on the floor beside him, wincing. The weight of the bookcase continued to crush him, and he could feel more of his ribs giving out with each and every second. It didn't hurt. He was too numb to feel anything. Adrenaline surged through his veins, yet all he could do was think about the things he'd never do. No more new novels, no little kids who'd call him father, no more seeing his mother. He stared up at the ceiling, muttering for help. His chest heaved as his vision slowly blurred and he was met with blackness once again.

He didn't have enough strength.

 


	3. Chapter 3

At times like this, he couldn't breathe. His lungs were empty and his throat closed up. He shivered and gasped and begged for air. Bystanders would stare, which would knock even more out of him, if it were even possible. They looked at him as if he was of another world, another universe. It scared him. Anxiety would creep up on his senses and take his nerves by force. It held him in the palm of it's hands and played him like a skilled puppet master would their finest puppet. A student next to him would raise their hand and he'd flinch, causing a whirlwind of air to be stolen from his needy lungs. He dug at his skin and scratched at scars that reminded him of situations far worse. Others stared while his chest heaved and his head became light.

He couldn't breathe.

\--

His mother threw harsh words to him while his father pitched objects. Nights were spent in bodily pain with unfinished schoolwork left abandoned on a work desk. Innumerable tears had been shed before, but now they refused to make the journey from his eyes to his dirty bed sheets. He was apathetic now, only caring to smile when putting on a mask in front of his friends. Friends that he was so afraid of losing if they found out. He stayed quiet, only talking when directly acknowledged. When they asked why he wouldn't go somewhere or why he refused to leave his house his lungs burned. He became red and stuttered and wasn't able to find the right words. They dismissed it, and moved on.

He couldn't breathe.

\--

They were cold towards him.

"Why won't you hang out with us, Sehun?"

"Aren't we friends?"

"C'mon, you love boba. Just spend a little time with us."

"Do you have someone more important to you than us?"

"Why do you hate me?"

\--

Everything was lost in the confines of his mind. He only focused on what mattered. Breathing. As soon as he could breathe, he would be able to talk with his friends, his family. He could tell them how he felt, what he'd been feeling. Finally, he would be able to tell the counsel in his head to shut the hell up. All he needed to do was learn, finally learn, how to breathe. His chest wouldn't ache, his head wouldn't throb. He would walk and talk and breathe freely. He'd be a bird, free to feel the wind beneath his wings and the air cycling through his lungs. He would breathe. Air would cease being his enemy. He just needed to learn.

He would breathe.

\--

His gaze was trained on the rafters of his attic. A draft whistled through loose boards and greeted his malnourished lungs with delight. He rolled his computer chair to a designated spot, his bare feet chilled by the cold wooden floorboards. Above the plush seat of the worn chair hung a belt, his father's belt. Many times had he felt the wrath behind that black strip, and many times had he hidden the hideous yellow bruises that it left in its wake. He stood upon the blue fabric of the wheeled chair, attempting to balance himself on unsteady ground. Methodically, he slipped his head through the loop of the belt he had nailed to the rafters. The leather was ice against his skin and caused him to shiver. He stole a large amount of oxygen to feed his greedy lungs before he kicked the chair that had supported him for many years without failure.

He could breathe.

\--

His body spasmed as his throat was denied access to sweet, sweet air. His lungs burned with anger, pleading for oxygen. He was taken away from the world around him. His brain worked overtime, trying to figure out the problem. The air was gone. Nothing could be done to obtain the precious air that was so necessary for one to function. He felt lighter and lighter as he choked more and more. An enormous knot grew in the base of his throat. He needed to breathe. He needed the air that surrounded him completely. He was desperate for it, but at the same time he refused it. Finally he was breathing, but his body wasn't satisfied. It rejected this false air, and instead attempted to obtain the oxygen that it knew it needed.

His body stopped it's violent jerks. In a final attempt, his brain screamed at his muscles, his organs, his anything to get that vital component. Nothing happened. Everything became still. His eyes were wide with satisfaction as strained tears welled up in unseeing orbs. Saliva pooled from his mouth that hung agape. Peace settled over the scene. A cold wind forced it's way through the cracks and crevices of a neglected attic.

He didn't breathe.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is most likely the last time this will update. i've sort of fallen away from exo and moved on to other bands/fandoms. i've had this chapter sitting in my drive for awhile so i thought i'd just upload it anyways. i apologise to those who believed that this would finish (if there are any???). let this last chapter be a symbol of my sincerest apologies.

Soft _ticks_ bounced off of the walls of a silent shopping centre. Mothers, children, business men were all tied together as time slowly ticked by. Every second sounded as a loud _tick_ as the green LED timer counted down the minutes, seconds, hours until zero, detonation, _death_. Police sirens screeched outside the thick concrete walls. Hope and anxiety thickened the air as he waited for a sign. A sign of rescue, or a sign of utter destruction. He just wanted a definite answer so his fingers would stop twitching and his forehead would stop sweating. He wanted to know if he'd live to see another day or if he'd die right here, with so many things gone unfinished. He wanted time to sort out all of these things he had looked over and put off. He just wanted to make it out of this and go back home with a wild story to tell.

\--

Originally, he had gone out for a new pair of pants after his best friend had so graciously stained his favourite pair of jeans with a non-washable palette of paint. While he signed desperate apologies, Zitao shrugged it off and asked only for money in return, so he could purchase a new pair. Upon reaching the large building, he was awed with all of the new styles of jeans that he could purchase. Ones of different washes and cuts occupied his thoughts as he browsed through various stores and tried on several different pairs. The simplicity of his state of mind was shattered as soon as he was bound and thrown into a back room by black-clad men with painful guns. They placed a wired bomb in the centre and ordered no one to move or shout, else they would demonstrate how a real gun actually works. After clicking a button, a series of _ticks_ sounded and every hostage in the room felt their stomach drop. One hour and it would go off. One hour to be saved. One hour until death.

Time ticked on.

\--

He wanted time to sort out his life. There was that one woman in his economics class that had the most beautiful eyes, and he wanted to tell her that. He had a four-page essay do in two days, and he wanted to finish it. He had to stay after school the next day for help with his mathematics, and he wanted to finally figure out how trigonometry really works. His mother was making Western food tonight, his favourite. He had plans to go to the arcade with a group of friends on Saturday, and he desperately wanted to keep those plans. He wanted time to do things he only dreamed of doing. He wanted to visit South Korea and meet the love of his life. He wanted to eat whatever exotic food he could get his hands on. He wanted to be that action movie actor that his idol inspired him to be. He wanted to learn another language to communicate with the occasional foreigners who'd ask him for directions. There were so many things he had to do. Most of all, he wanted time. He wanted however much time he'd need to live a successful and fulfilling life where he'd get married and have a beautiful child. Not a time that constantly displays itself, reminding him exactly how long he has left. No, he wanted time so that when he would go, it would be a surprise and he'd have already had a wonderful time on earth. He wanted that clock to go away. He wanted time.

\--

Bordering on five minutes, and no deals had been made between the terrorists and the officers outside. They yelled back and forth to each other, through loud and projected broken speech. Already had the captors beaten an older man and shot a cocky young man in the leg. Every hostage was too scared to move or speak or even breathe too loudly. As a way to calm himself, he resorted to quietly drumming his fingers on the cold tiled floor. He thought of the stained pair of pants left at his friend's house and questioned whether this whole mess could be his fault, but he shook it off. This wasn't his fault. It wasn't anyone's fault. At least, he hoped. He trembled with worry and fear. He didn't want to die, not like this. It was cruel and unpredictable and he was sure it would be painful. He wanted to go out like a hero, when he knew he had done it all. There was so much he had to live for, but he'd never live it.

Three minutes.

\--

One minute was left on that obnoxious green timer. It no longer ticked, but now it beeped with urgency as it reached fifty seconds. Not one person made a sound as the beeps became louder with each passing second. The captors began to clear out of the doors, leaving all tied up persons struggling to figure out if this was it. If this was the last minute of their lives. After the last terrorist had left, he shut and locked the thick aluminium door, essentially sealing their hostage's fate. Children began to weep into the sides of their mothers as the timer reached thirty seconds with a loud chime. Thirty seconds of living left. Twenty nine seconds, and there was no far off future full of gleeful children. Twenty eight, and marriage would no longer be a solidification of love. Twenty five, and there would be no love to speak of. Twenty three, and he'd never visit that small peninsula. Twenty, and he'd never become that famous movie star. Eighteen, and he'd never learn English. Fifteen, and he wouldn't graduate college. Thirteen, and there was no arcade on Saturday night. Ten, and he wouldn't finish that essay. Five, and he'd never figure out trigonometry. Two, and he'd never see his mother again.

One. There was no tomorrow.

 


End file.
